


Old Scratch and the Dragon

by storyplease



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dragons, F/M, Magic, Wandlore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 14:27:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8252444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyplease/pseuds/storyplease
Summary: This story is only tangentially related to the Harry Potter fandom, as I created it specifically as a sort of historic fairytale that wizards would tell their children at night.  It can stand on its own even if you know nothing about HP and is, at its heart, a story about love, and evil, and the trouble with growing too prideful with oneself.  There is also redemption in there, too, if you know how to look for it.Oh, and dragons.  Because of COURSE there are.





	

There was a time in the distant past when dragons found it useful to speak the tongues of Man.  For Man was prideful and proved an invaluable ally in doing the hard and thankless work of amassing the exact sorts of indulgences that even a young dragon could then snatch away with ease.  A dragon can live for hundreds of years, its heart full of power but hard against superfluous emotion, its hide is stronger than diamond, and some say its fire can burn hotter than the flames of the Underworld.

The dragons considered themselves superior to all other forms of life in the world, and slew many innocents in their lust and greed for frivolity and wealth.

There was a young boy who grew like a noble bloom amongst the rocks in the harsh land of the Wyrmking- a massive and ancient beast of great intelligence whom even other dragons feared.  His father had been murdered before he could remember, his mother stolen with countless others in the surrounding area to serve the massive creature in its mountain chambers, for the Wyrmking loved to relax in splendor and kept only the most beautiful consorts as his palace servants, devouring them once they had served their purpose.  Orphaned and defenseless, the boy had been grudgingly raised by the tangled village that eked its meager existence through endless toil in service to their razor-toothed overlord.  Some say that due to the tragic circumstances that had befallen him at such an early age, the earth itself had blessed him with its protection, and this is why the boy had the ability to bend the magical arts to his will.  

His task of service to the Wyrmking was to tend to the personal gardens of the beast, as he had a particular talent for cultivating life even in the poorest soil.  One day, when all was still other than the snores of the great creature as they gently shook the mountain, he stripped a small branch of Elderwood from the central tree in the king’s garden and fashioned a wand to funnel his own power into word and deed.

There was a girl, too, as there often is in tales like this.

She too hailed from the village, her hair shining like the light on water, with a gentle heart that did not begrudge him for the tragic circumstances of his birth.  Her smile was a flash of lightning, and it struck his heart.

He was not a boy anymore, yet not quite a man.  He had been sitting at her side in a grove of scented spring within the walls of the magical garden weaving petals from great magnolia blooms into the likeness of butterflies, sending them to her with a wave of his wand.  Beating their whispery wings, they gently kissed her skin in a way that he could only long to do himself, for he was still ignorant in the ways of romantic love.  Her laugh was musical and, in its own way a secret sort of magic, sweetly cast into the air around them.

Without warning, the great smoke stirred around the mountain in a billowing ring.  The Wyrmking had been awakened by that laugh as it carried on the crisp spring air, and it stirred the greed that lay within him, and he wanted nothing else but to possess whoever had uttered such a sound.  The beast poured from his keep, blotting out the sun with his massive wings, claws and teeth glinting dangerously in the false twilight.

The young man attempted to shield her using the magic of his wand, but the creature knocked him to the side, rending flesh with claw, removing his prize gently with a serpentine tail wrapped possessively around her fragile body.  Being still young, the young man did not yet know the fear of death and in his foolish lust for revenge, he pointed his cracked wand at the creature and muttered the darkest curse he could imagine. The blast rebounded against the scales of the Wyrmking uselessly, striking him and he screamed in pain and rage and futility. The beast glanced back as though noticing an annoying insect and then with a sickening roar, turned its hellfire on the small figure still struggling to stand and fight.

But that’s not where the story ends, oh no.

His wrath was like a lightening rod for the magic deeply running in a current within the earth, for nothing is more powerful than a sacrifice made out of love.  The power harnessed the flames as they licked against his form, preventing him from crumbling to ash.  As the magic infused his entire being, the deep red clay of the earthmagic that had infused his body also stained his skin a permanent deep and angry red.  The raking claws across his chest and face faded magically into white-hot scars, his eyes burning like flame itself as he magicked the dragon’s fire into his belly with a tongue as slick as molten gold.

The magnolia tree had blackened into a gnarled dark shape behind him, but the magic had touched it as well.  Instead of falling to ash at his touch, it had hardened into a substance as hard as black diamond.  Summoning the power within him, he snapped a small branch, feeling the power of blackest rage fill him the wand claimed him.

He took to the sky, then, free of wing, the heat in his heart burning terribly, following the shadow of his mortal enemy.  The Wyrmking had retired to a massive throne room, a hoard of impossible size within the massive mountain.  He had placed the girl in a crystal cage with a special high golden collar that amplified the sound of her tear-streaked song of sadness and loss, for she had seen her dearest childhood friend murdered simply because she had dared to translate her inner joy into sound.

He knocked at the entrance of the throne room and entered without fear, servants gasping with fright at his shocking appearance.  The Wyrmking was intrigued at the sight of the creature before him and asked him to sit at his table for supper, asking the peculiar visitor his name.

“It’s Scratch,” the strange visitor replied graciously with a voice as soft as silk as he bowed deeply, and when he looked up, his eyes burned up at the massive slitted eyes of the beast, “Old Scratch, at your service.”

The Wyrmking was charmed, never having been graced with such nonchalant and fearless regard.  For as much as he relished being feared and afforded his every whim, it had also bred the seed of discontent at the ease with which he subjugated all those he set to control.  He found, as the gracious stranger Old Scratch continued to entertain and converse with him, that he hadn’t even known that he had been missing such meaningful company.

As the evening wore on and food and drink were filled and refilled, the Wyrmking’s eyes began to close in a warm and sated stupor, and when he was at his most vulnerable, Old Scratch proposed a wager.

“As we all know, great kings such as yourself are the strongest and most powerful beings in existence.  A lowly being such as myself is as nothing before your magnificent countenance. So you must forgive me for suggesting such a thing to you, as you are sure to best me within moments.  Still, I wish to provide you with some fleeting entertainment and the opportunity to gain something precious and rare,” The man’s mouth grinned as he bowed low again, a soft puff of heat escaping his lips.

“And what might you be proposing, Old Scratch?” The Wyrmking was intrigued as he grinned cunningly in return.

“Well, you see, I have heard of the great magic known as dragonsong. I consider myself a bit of a musician myself and, while I have minute magical ability compared to yours, I would like to propose a duel.  We shall both play our best song and whomever brings the other to tears first shall win the power of the other forevermore.”

The dragon roared with laughter, for dragons are not known to to shed tears lightly, and began to reach for his wine, “And exactly what do you have that is remotely similar in value to all that I have amassed in my great hall?”

“I offer only my eternal servitude, my intimate and dizzying conversational skills, the endless novelty of my mind and meager powers for your amusement.  For there is only one Old Scratch in this world,” he flourished his hands from his sides, pulling his wand and spun orbs of wine from the king’s carafe on the table into the air, changing them into the form of a flying dragon and guiding the liquid to the lips of the beast in a grandiose fashion.

The Wyrmking, dazed with drink and utterly bemused by the unique curiosity of the small figure before him finally cracked a scaly smile.

“I will agree to this proposal,” he said, deeply, his voice rumbling the hall as he spoke, “But I must warn you, I shall not hold back simply because I find your company amusing. And I shall go first.”

“Of course.  I would not expect any less from a great being such as yourself,” Old Scratch bowed and scraped, appearing more and more servile.

“I look forward to adding you to my collection,” the great dragon boomed greedily.

The dragon beckoned to the girl in the cage and she fell silent.

“You girl, you will mediate this duel,” he said, “You will count to three and drop your silk handkerchief to begin the match.  We shall both duel with our hearts in song and whomever brings the other to tears first shall be the victor.”

She nodded wordlessly, and raised the handkerchief.

“Know your foolishness, friend,” the Wyrmking snarled deeply as the handkerchief dropped to the floor.

The dragon reared up on his hind legs, speaking in an ancient, alien tongue, and power rolled over his scales, pulling the giant plates on his chest to either side, and revealing a massive ruby-red heart, the strings of which he ran heated breath over and vibrated like a harp across his breast.  

A piercing, sorrowful sound filled the air, fiery and full of loss.  The Wyrmking’s heartstrings ran together in a complicated and sorrowful melody the thick string in the middle forming words that echoed deeply into the heart of everyone who could hear. His servants were unable to stop their tears from flowing, and even the girl in the crystal cage found her eyes stinging, though no tears fell.

When the last note finally fell silent, Old Scratch clapped gently.

“Well done,” he congratulated the massive beast, “But I graciously request that I try my luck.”

With a small flourish, he drew his black wand across his own chest and, with great effort, pulled out a deep red instrument with strings of its own.  He brought the base of it to his chin and ran the wand over the strings like a bow, playing a wordless melody of such bittersweetness that the music itself seemed to cry out.

Everyone who heard Old Scratch play that night remembered the lyrics differently, but all of them were reminded of the things that they’d lost and regretted the most. But it was the sound soaring above the stringed instrument, rising in intensity as it built towards a climax that pushed the impact of the music into an almost physical force.  It was the high, clear sound of the girl in the crystal cage, her voice echoing and splitting into many facets like melancholy symphony of loss itself following each note that Old Scratch played.

The great beast choked back a sob and great tears poured to the ground echoing wetly as Old Scratch finished drawing his wand over his instrument, and he nodded politely to the girl in the cage, bowing deeply to both of them.

The great Wyrmking, with great effort, his eyes steaming as his tears evaporated, pulled back his scales, showing his heart in submission, and Old Scratch took the thickest, central string from the heart-lyre and placed it in the core of his midnight wand.  With the string, he had taken the dragon’s consciousness and from that day forward, it became a dumb beast for him to control as he desired.

With his magic and using the remaining strings in the dragon’s heart, Old Scratch fashioned wands from the trees in the royal garden.  Each wand chose its partner from the many hundreds of former servants of the mountain castle, whose blood had been saturated with the power and purified by the magic of the earth from having lived in the mountain in the service of the Wyrmking for many long years.   

For his bride, he took the girl with the shining hair, disappearing with her deep into the mountain, but legend has it that the sound of their eternal duet can still be heard on the wind by those who stop to listen when the spring winds blow.


End file.
